


Abrade

by everybreathagift



Series: Chafed [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, I'm a bad person and I'm sorry, M/M, so much hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 06:52:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11179371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybreathagift/pseuds/everybreathagift
Summary: The sixth time in a long list of the moments Mickey gave in.





	Abrade

**Author's Note:**

> I thought this 'verse was done but apparently, Mickey wanted me to write his side of things? I don't know. He's a pushy little shit, isn't he? So, this is one of, maybe, four single snapshots of the events from Until It Bleeds told from Mickey's perspective. 
> 
> This hasn't been beta-ed because I wrote it in one sitting and Mickey wouldn't shut the fuck up, so I'm just gonna throw it up here and hope it's not too much of an atrocity.

He shouldn’t fucking be here. There’s no reason for him to be. He’s got a house that Mandy ain’t ever had a problem going to before. There’s fucking diners and bars and any number of other places they could damned well be. He doesn’t have to be here. 

Mickey takes another long sip of his beer, feeling his head swim with how quickly he’s downing them. He’s gonna do something fucking stupid soon, he can feel it. Ian’s sitting there, joking with Mandy about something but Mickey knows it’s bullshit. Mickey knows that’s not Ian’s real smile, or his real laugh. Mickey knows what a truly happy Ian looks like, because he was the reason for it, once. Ages ago, when life made fucking sense and he didn’t always feel like he wanted to disappear. 

Ian’s upset because Mickey won’t speak to him, like Ian truly doesn’t realize that he  _ can’t _ . They can’t be fucking friends. If Mickey opens his mouth, he’s not gonna say something like, “Yeah, I saw that movie, too. It fuckin’ sucked.” He’s gonna grab him by the collar of his ugly fucking shirt and tell him, “I love you. I miss you. I need you. I fuckin’ hate you,” or some other equally fucked up shit. 

Mickey drinks another beer. Then another. He smokes a little weed and then drinks another beer. Mandy is getting her ass beat at Rummy and Ian is staring openly at Mickey every few minutes. He’s not sure why he’s still sitting on the fucking couch. He should get up and go to his room and cry like the bitch he is where no one can see and he can bite his lip until it bleeds because that pain is better than the sharp, twisting burn in his chest. But he’s drunk and Ian is so close, right there, so beautiful, so fucking  _ his _ .

But he’s not. Not anymore. Never will be again because Mickey doesn’t have much left in him and one more ‘goodbye’ would end him for good, the pussy that he is. 

They’ve done this too many times before and it always ends up with Mickey doing something fucking stupid and Ian looking like Mickey just shot his dog when Mickey has to back away, stop touching, leave the entire fucking vicinity because he  _ can’t _ . 

Mandy is a fucking bitch, too, because she does this shit on purpose. Invites Ian over and always finds a reason to leave them alone for a while. Mickey knows she just wants him to be happy, and that she loves Ian, but she doesn’t fucking understand. She couldn’t. No one does. 

And now, Mandy is making a beer run because she’s ‘mostly sober’ despite that being fucking bullshit because Mickey knows Ian can’t drink with his meds. Ian is perfectly sober but he sure as fuck ain’t offering to be the one to leave. Just tells Mandy to be careful and Mickey feels like he can’t fucking  _ breathe _ . 

The house becomes silent and Mickey opens another beer. Ian keeps staring and Mickey starts fidgeting. When Ian stands and starts walking toward the couch, Mickey sits up a little straighter. 

“You gotta stop looking at me like that, man,” Mickey says, whispers, fucking _begs_. He just needs a break. He just needs to not feel for a while. He’s so tired of feeling so much all the damned time. 

Ian sits close, too close, sideways on the couch with his knee pressed into Mickey’s thigh. “Can’t help it. I’ve missed looking at you.” 

Mickey bites his tongue and looks away, wishing his chest would fucking close back up because Mandy’s gonna be pissed about the blood on the furniture. Wishes his heart would just give out already because it’s gotta be fucking tired of beating so miserably all the time. 

“Please, Mick,” Ian breathes, leaning in close, dropping his hand to Mickey’s thigh. He smells so good and his palm is so warm and Mickey is so,  _ so _ tired. 

Mickey knows what Ian’s asking for. He’s asking for the last shred of fucking life Mickey’s got in him. He’s asking for another chance to take advantage of the way Mickey loves with his whole heart because, God fucking forbid, he be blessed with the ability to move the fuck on. He’s asking for shit he shouldn’t be asking for. 

But Mickey is drunk and high and helplessly in love, still, always, and one night can’t hurt, right? It can’t hurt worse than it always hurts. Being with Ian  _ can’t _ hurt worse than not being with him and if it kills Mickey in the end, well, there’s really no better way to go, is there? 

And it’s gonna kill him in the end, he knows it, but hey, having one last night of happiness is more than most sorry fuckers get. So when he wakes up in the morning to an empty bed and the sight finally puts him in the ground, he will have at least had this. 

So Mickey looks back at Ian and traces the sharp lines of Ian’s face with his eyes. Sits up and presses his forehead against Ian’s and breathes. Feels his lungs expanding for the first time since the last time they were this close. Breathes him in and thinks,  _ stay, please, stay.  _

“I fuckin’ miss you,” Mickey says instead because that’s easier than showing Ian how truly pathetic he’s become. “All the time. I miss when you loved me.” 

He’s said this before because it’s always easier, every time, and Ian’s gonna tell him that he still does and Mickey  _ knows _ it’s not real enough but it makes the nerves on his fingers itch and his stomach turn upside down all the same. 

“I still do.”

_ Yeah, because it’s easy right now .  _ Mickey is here and solid and stuck. It’s easy to love someone that is going to be a permanent fixture in a shitty life.  _ But you never choose me when it’s hard. I always chose you .  _

“Then why’s it still hurt so fuckin’ bad, huh?” 

Their lips are almost touching and Mickey isn’t sure if he’s happy or if he wants to throw up but it’s probably both. He feels the hand on his thigh inching higher and he’s getting hard which is just so sad and Mickey thinks it’s fucking ridiculous that his brain has tied sex and love and wrapped them up together in a broken down box with a dirty bow. He’s had exactly one blow job from one guy since the last time he and Ian were together, and he cried himself to sleep afterwards because he’s a little bitch. 

“I don’t want you to hurt anymore,” Ian says and it’s hopeful because he can tell he’s reeling Mickey back in. Deep down, he knows Mickey is a fucking fool that will always come back, give in, let Ian keep taking and taking. “I never meant for you to hurt in the first place, you gotta know that.” 

Mickey’s drunk brain tells him it’s not a lie but when he wakes up alone in the morning, hungover and fucked out and stupidly sober, he’ll know. He’ll remember. He always does. 

Ian is gripping his thigh hard now, slowly but surely moving it higher and higher until Mickey feels his throat closing up. And whatever, fuck it, if there’s one thing Mickey has always been good at, it’s putting up a front and pretending not to care. He can do that. He did it for years, before. 

So he swallows hard and forces a smirk that he hopes doesn’t look as much like a grimace as it feels and says, “You gonna get on me or what?”

And when Ian groans and clenches tighter and pushes closer, Mickey tries to breathe. Tries to remember what the beach had looked like and the first time he tried Jack Daniels and the last time his mom told him he was good because all of those memories are easier than remembering that Ian likes to have his neck bitten or that Ian’s hands shake when he doesn’t take his meds with food. 

“I don’t wanna do this if it’s- if that’s all this is, Mickey,” Ian whispers, looking pained and Mickey feels the irrational urge to kill something because Ian should never look so hurt. “I don’t wanna just fuck you. I wanna be with you.” 

Mickey’s gonna fucking cry, he can feel it and it makes him sick. Where’s Terry when you need him? Mickey never cried before all this stupid shit because that’s something for bitches, Terry had made sure he knew that after his mom was gone and Mickey didn’t cry again until this fucking guy showed up in his life. Lodged his way behind Mickey’s ribs and took up any extra space Mickey might’ve had. 

Maybe he wouldn’t be so sad if Ian were telling the truth. If, for a minute, Mickey could  _ believe _ he was telling the truth. That he could really be enough. He’s doesn’t remember what it feels like but he’s pretty sure it must’ve been great. 

But he isn’t, and he wasn’t, and he’ll never be but he’s always managed to get Ian into bed so he’s gonna take tonight and he’s gonna get fucked and then he can go back to being miserable tomorrow. 

So instead of saying  _ that’s all I’ve ever wanted  _ or  _ I love you in the way they talk about in the movies _ or  _ I should’ve killed Terry and I should’ve asked you to stay and I should’ve never went after that bitch and I should’ve never ran ,  _ he says, “Come on, Gallagher, while I’m still drunk enough to let your freckled ass do things to me.”

He smiles and Ian smiles and Mickey’s lips twitch when he realizes it worked. Ian is standing and dragging Mickey off the couch and Mickey just barely manages to get turned around to avoid the kiss he knew was coming because, fuck, he isn’t made of stone and kissing Ian and fucking Ian are two very different things. Kissing Ian gives him this feeling in his chest that he can’t describe and makes his toes curl and reminds him that at one time, kissing Ian was enough to keep him happy. 

But when Ian steps into Mickey’s room, eyes bright, licking his lips, reaching for Mickey like he hasn’t touched him in years, Mickey kisses him, anyway. 

He doesn’t cry while they fuck. He doesn’t cry when he comes, or when Ian whispers his name, or when Ian tells him he’s beautiful. He doesn’t cry when Ian says, “I love you.” 

But he has to grit his teeth hard against it when Ian curls up behind him and buries his face in Mickey’s neck, pressing ‘I missed you’s’ into Mickey’s skin. But he still doesn’t fucking cry. 

When he wakes up and he’s not alone, and Ian’s face twitches in his sleep and he groans and slowly opens his eyes and smiles that soft, easy smile that makes Mickey feel like a teenager again and when Ian says, “Morning, Mick,” and pulls Mickey close once more, then, right then, Mickey cries. 

Maybe this was meant to kill him anyway. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
